Inspiration
by Giada Luna
Summary: Nathaniël finds his inspiration in her; Chloé finds her freedom and strength in him. ChloNath oneshot: aged up AU. Based on the cover art "Craving" by Aurora Lynne


I never thought I'd write a ChloNath oneshot, and yet here we are. Based on the art "Craving" by Aurora Lynne( auroralynne dot tumblr dot com ). Aged up AU potential Season 2 spoilers.

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 **Inspiration**

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inˈspī(ə)r/  
 _verb_

past tense: **inspired** ; past participle: **inspired**

 **1**.

* fill (someone) with the urge or ability to do or feel something, especially to do something creative.

* create (a feeling, especially a positive one) in a person.

* animate someone with (such a feeling).

* give rise to.

 **2**.

* breathe in (air); inhale.

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The window to Nathaniël's studio was always unlatched.

It might seem like a careless thing – the window itself was almost impossible to access from the outside, and there was no reason, really to make sure it was locked.

But it wasn't careless – it was intentional.

His lips twitched upward ever so slightly at the shift of air pressure in his studio, but continued to work on his painting.

"Right on time."

"Aren't I always?"

"No," he gave a small laugh, dipping the tip of his brush into the yellow paint. "But you are tonight."

"And what exactly am I on time for?"

She was at his shoulder – he was much taller than her now – and he gave a careless shrug. "I was running low on inspiration. But now that you are here," he nodded to the brush as it swirled life across the canvas, like magic, "it's no longer a problem."

"Maybe not for you," she muttered, "but this is one muse that is worn out from saving Paris – and Ladybug and Chat Noir."

"Sounds serious."

She narrowed her eyes at the playful smile he tried so hard to hide.

"It is," she announced, plucking the brush from his fingers, and putting it to the side, placing one small, strong hand on his chest. "So, I'm going to do something about it."

"Who am I to question my Muse?"

"Hush," she backed him into the chair, barely waiting for him to sit before she climbed into his lap, and he settled his hands on her hips.

He lazily reached behind her and plucked out another brush, adding to the canvas.

"When inspiration strikes," he teased.

"Oh," she grinned wickedly behind her mask. "I'll _show_ you 'inspiration.'"

She smirked at his sharp intake of breath.

Chloé understood power.

She thought she had understood as a young girl, having lived her life as the undisputed (if not universally loved) Queen Bee of her year. (The irony of her kwami and transformation was not lost on her.)

She thought she understood, because she was wealthy and beautiful and well connected, and barely had to utter a whim or caprice before it was granted.

It made her feel powerful.

But it was not power.

Her father lavished her with gifts and love and attention – but none of it had been enough to make her mother stay, and it certainly wouldn't bring her home.

And while her father loved her, (and truly he did) the same couldn't be said for pretty much anyone else.

But Chloé had learned that love could bind or love could divide – and it could crack a heart in two.

A broken heart is a fragile thing.

Fragility is weakness.

Chloé despised weakness.

Vulnerability.

So Chloé never learned to earn or foster or cultivate love.

Instead, she found her constants.

Her havens.

André Bourgeois surrounded his daughter with love, and tried to fill the space left by her mother with gifts and attention and everything he felt she deserved.

Somewhere at the root of her heart, Chloé knew her father's power was not her power. His connections weren't her connections – but he was the one constant in her days, and the respect she demanded as the daughter of the Mayor was the warped result of a little girl believing her father was the hero that could slay all the dragons, and push the nightmares back into their ugly little boxes under the bed.

Sabrina Raincomprix was her first friend at school; loyal to a fault and who showed love the way Chloé had been taught to see it. The daughter of a police man, she had a preternatural respect for authority, and Chloé exuded it. Awed by Chloé's confidence, wealth and beauty and style, she fell into her shadow, endlessly grateful for any scrap of affection, the word "Yes!" always hovering on her lips. Chloé made everything seem possible and to a timid girl who saw boundaries in every mirror and every hesitation, she was a god.

Adrien was gentle and kind and careful with her heart, and wanted nothing in return. (He was also beautiful and wealthy and well connected, and understood the caprices of the world of Influence.)

She clung to him in a world of smiles waiting to bite, as the years sharpened her own smile into something deadly and callous and her heart hardened and distanced itself from all who could harm it.

She wore spite as a designer label with an all-season collection in a world that valued who you wore more than who you were.

Chloé thought that she understood power.

Which is why the seeds of Adrien's kindness – and the devastation of his disappointment (two things she would never have acknowledged from anyone else except maybe Ladybug) confused her.

She didn't know when or how or why they took root in her heart – even after Pollen had joined her on her journey – but they eroded and anchored and fed and strangled parts of her heart in turn, until she no longer knew what she knew.

One day she found herself being – if not kind – at least not cruel to her classmates, and another day not long after, she noted Nathaniël's art was not of Marinette, but of her.

Or at least of Queen Bee.

"Why her?" she asked, trying to sound disinterested.

He shrugged.

"There's… just something about her."

It's just coincidence that she saved him the next week, or so she told herself.

And of course it was natural to stop by his studio to make sure that he was alright.

And it took time, but Chloé found another harbor in his quiet and the vast landscape of his imagination and in his ability to see what others could not.

Chloé thought she knew what it meant to be powerful.

That was before she knew the richness of a life steeped in affection

\- or saw her own beauty reflected in the depths of gentle eyes, or the way sunrise could burnish the copper of his hair or the porcelain of his skin into something otherworldly.

\- or grew to appreciate their friends and the curious intertwining of their lives into adulthood.

\- or found her whispers of "I love you" could barely pass her own lips before his were pressing against hers, or his breath was ghosting down her neck or against her clavicle.

And it was in in his studio, just before she dropped her transformation (and ignored the paint as she straddled his lap) that the realization struck.

Power isn't wealth or beauty or connections or demands.

Power is the ability to transcend those things – to live beyond the constraints of a world of masks and sharpened smiles and barbed tongues.

In the arms and eyes of Nathaniël – who learned to see beyond every mask in her arsenal, magic or otherwise – she learned true power was born of freedom.

\- of kindness

\- of a willingness to be vulnerable

\- to be loved.

She pushed the shirt off of his shoulders to fall on the floor as her transformation released, and Queen Bee gave way to Chloé Bourgeois. Nathaniël embraced her for what she was and who she was, and Chloé embraced him right back; until their skin was streaked by paint and dawn, and promises of another sunrise to come.

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 _Thank you, Aurora Lynne for allowing me to share your work with this story - and for sharing your artwork with us!_

 _\- GL_


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